Page 9 of Morally Corrupt

When I was younger, I balked at the pressure to be with someone like that. All my peers were going to prostitutes, availing themselves of their services. It was expected of me, too, but I could never go through with it. It was too impersonal…too transactional.

But Pink . . . no one's ever gotten my attention like Pink did. Yes, this might be transactional too, but the attraction between us is palpable, pulsating in the air. Just being in the same room as her makes my senses prickle with awareness. She exudes such raw sexuality that I want to consume her whole. And I will.

"Mr. Hastings is here as a liaison to the mayor's office." The presenter's words wake me from my reverie, and I quickly close my eyes and take a deep breath. "Why don't you introduce yourself, Mr. Hastings?"

I stand up, putting on my best professional expression.

"Thank you," I say before continuing. "I am Theodore Hastings. I graduated from Quantico some years ago, but I've been off field work for a year now." I give some background information about my credentials before I launch into the importance of the case at hand.

"Romina Lastra, nee Agosti, isn't just any murder victim. Unofficially, her father, Rocco Agosti, is part of the Italian mafia. Our sources have identified several illegal businesses related to the Agosti name. Her husband is touted to be a mobster as well, but we haven't had many reports linking Valentino Lastra to any illegal activity." I take a deep breath. "It's all unofficial, of course, but we're talking about faction disputes here. And since right now the most probable culprit is her husband . . ." I let the words hang, and they seem to catch my meaning.

"We need to be careful in our investigation," one man notes, and I nod.

"Yes. The last thing we want now is to involuntarily cause a mob war. Knowing what's at stake, I want everyone to focus on this investigation." I turn to address the forensic team. "I'm not saying this to create any bias, rather I want you all to carefully examine the evidence and make sure you are as thorough as possible."

I go through a few more details before dismissing the meeting. When everyone's left the room, I take out my phone and see a few missed calls from Marcel. Worried it might be something urgent, I dial his number right away.

I'd met Marcel a couple of years ago by chance. We used to live in the same apartment building and I would often see him at the gym. He always kept to himself, and I'd noticed him shutting down every single attempt at flirtation with the opposite sex.

This one time, a girl had intruded too far into his personal space and touched him. I don't know exactly what had happened in that moment, but it was like watching someone flip a switch. Marcel had collapsed on the floor, his eyes wide and unblinking. He'd been unresponsive, so I'd immediately called an ambulance, going with him to the hospital.

He'd had a panic attack.

That day I'd learned of his aversion to touch and that it seemed to be directly connected to some trauma. I'd never pried, however, seeing how private of a person he was. But from our initial conversation at the hospital, where he'd thanked me for my involvement, a comfortable friendship had arisen.

The first year, we'd interacted mostly as neighbors, but slowly he'd become a little more comfortable talking to me.

"Marcel?" I ask when he answers the phone. "Is there something wrong?" Given his taciturn and aloof nature, it's exceedingly rare for him to be the one to initiate a call — let alone more.

"No." He pauses. "I was driving by the station and wanted to see if you're done with your meeting."

"Just finished."

"Great. I'm in the parking lot," he says, and he hangs up. Odd.

After I gather all my materials, I make my way to his car, getting in the passenger's seat.

"Kind of you to drop by," I add drily after I fasten my seat belt.

"I was in the area." He shrugs. Starting the car, he drives toward our apartment building. "How was the meeting? Any updates on the perpetrator?" He asks, quite possibly the most words he's ever said at once.

"Not really. The husband's still the primary suspect, although I want to revisit the evidence," I say almost absentmindedly.

"Do you even have other suspects?"

I turn to look at him. His expression is somber, his eyes on the road.

"You know I can't say that," I add jokingly, a little curious about his sudden interest in the case.

"Right," Marcel says, although his tone doesn't seem too convincing.

"Are you done with finals?" I change the subject. He's in his first year of law school, even though I can't imagine how that works for him, with his anti-social tendencies.

"Yeah." That's all he says, and shaking my head, I drop it. I know I'm not likely to get more from him.

We get to the apartment building and we each go our separate ways.

The moment I open the door, I am assaulted by my little roommates, all crowding at my feet and meowing loudly.

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